


Room to Heal

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome Clint, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Avengers (Movie), Serious Injuries, Temporary Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:05:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's been a few changes at Phil's place while he's been stuck at SHIELD Medical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Room to Heal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maquis_Leader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maquis_Leader/gifts).



> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toys, not mine. I'm just playing.
> 
> For Maquis Leader, who gave me an awesome prompt when I asked, "What should I write?"
> 
> Warning for adult language.

 

Phil glances up at his apartment building as Clint pulls the car he's borrowed from SHIELD up in front of it.

It looks normal this far from the center of the warzone, the neighborhood untouched.

The same cannot be said for many of the neighborhoods they've driven through on their way here from Medical. Even eight weeks after the battle, there are cordoned-off streets. Empty lots loom like missing teeth, piles of rubble cover the streets and sidewalks, and there are makeshift memorials everywhere.

New York is healing, but it is slow going. Phil can relate.

“Home sweet home, hmm?” Clint murmurs with a grin, and Phil tries to smile back. “Wait right here,” Clint adds as he easily climbs out of the car, and Phil barely bites back the urge to snap, _Where the hell am I going to go?_

It's not Clint's fault. He's been wonderful, focusing all of his energy on helping Phil recover, and Phil knows that part of his eagerness comes from the need to keep himself busy so he won't dwell on his own recent trauma. Phil is okay with that. Time together is helping them both, Clint is attending his mandated pysch sessions, and -- wonder of wonders -- they seem to actually be helping.

Phil sighs, fighting a wince at the movement of his chest, as he stares at the building once again.

He thinks he's made a terrible mistake.

Stark and the others have been urging him since he woke up to move into the newly renovated Avengers Tower with all of them. He is touched by their concern, truly he is, but they are in the delicate process of forming a team and learning to trust each other, and they don't need to be burdened with his care on top of that.

So he's insisted on being brought home, but now, as he watches Clint set up the detested wheelchair outside Phil's car door, he realizes he really hasn't thought this through.

He lives on the fourth floor of a building where the elevator rarely works, in an apartment that is definitely not designed for someone in a wheelchair.

Phil's going to have to leave the chair in the living room -- it won't fit through his narrow doorways -- and walk into the deeper areas of the apartment. He _can_ walk, it's just very slow, and he's not supposed to do it very often, or anything else that taxes his heart or lungs. Which is pretty much everything.

He has no clue how he's going to make it up four flights of stairs, even with Clint's help, and he leans against the headrest, overwhelmed by a sudden wave of despair.

The urge to ignore Clint when he opens the car door in the hopes that Clint will just drive him right back to Medical is strong.

It's pretty bad when _Medical_ is looking like an improvement.

“Ready?” Clint asks brightly, his voice full of false cheer. He knows how much this is going to hurt Phil.

By the time Phil is settled in the wheelchair, he is breathing shallowly through clenched teeth, eyes blurry with tears of pain that he refuses to let fall.

“Sorry, Phil. I'm so sorry,” Clint is murmuring as he strokes the back of Phil's head and squeezes his shoulders gently, reassuringly. It is much more than Phil usually allows on a public street, but it feels so good while he's wracked with pain, and he can't bring himself to make Clint stop.

After a moment to center himself, Phil takes as deep a breath as his injuries will allow, and nods. “Okay,” he says shakily.

Clint wheels him toward the front door of the building, and Phil notices for the first time that the entrance has been completely redone. There is a very new looking concrete ramp in addition to the stairs.

He looks at Clint in surprise, and they both carefully ignore the flinch caused by the sudden movement.

Clint grins winningly. “Your landlord agreed to a few renovations,” he says easily as he pushes Phil up the ramp.

“Peverill agreed to the changes?” Phil asks, shocked. His landlord is an asshole, but the neighborhood is quiet and safe, so Phil's been willing to put up with it. He stops himself from making a joke about the possibility of alien possession just in time. Those aren't funny anymore.

“It's all on the up and up,” Clint assures him. “Now, can we go inside? We are exposed as hell out here!”

Phil does not want to go inside. Inside is closer to the four flights of stairs that might as well be four hundred. He nods anyway.

Inside, the small lobby gleams like he has never seen it, and there is no _Out of Order_ sign on the elevator doors.

His overwhelming relief must show on his face despite his best efforts to keep it hidden, because Clint's expression goes carefully blank. He crouches next to the chair so his face is level with Phil's.

“Did you honestly think I was going to make you attempt to climb four stories, Phil?” he asks, disbelief mingling with the hurt in his voice, and yeah, now Phil can see that it was a pretty stupid assumption. He was just distracted by the nightmarish thought of the climb.

“How did you do this?” he asks, gesturing to the elevator instead of apologizing. Clint takes it for what it is, smiling ruefully.

“I can be pretty persuasive,” he says as he stands and pushes Phil toward the elevator, and yeah, Phil knows that much is true.

The elevator may be working, but it is still slow and cranky. As they ride up to his floor, Phil thinks of what else is going to be a problem besides narrow doorways.

He stifles a sigh. Nearly all of his dishes are in the cabinets above his sink and countertops. Raising his arms above his shoulders is still a no-go. Maybe he can get Clint to put a few bowls and plates and glasses on the counter before he heads back to the tower for the night.

Even getting clothes off the hangers in his bedroom closet is going to be a challenge.

He's exhausted just thinking about it. Maybe it would be better to just give in and move to the tower.

But the team has better things to do than get his dishes down for him and help him put his socks on, and even Clint can't be around to wait on him every hour of every day.

As much as he detests the idea, it might be time to consider bringing in someone to help him with the basics, at least until he's back on his feet. Whenever that might be.

He sighs, not bothering to stifle it this time.

“I know this is all probably pretty tiring,” Clint says as he pushes Phil down the hall toward his apartment, “but you're really quiet there, Boss.”

“Just trying to figure out how the hell I'm going to do everything now that I'm home,” Phil says bluntly, too tired and apprehensive to whitewash it.

Clint hums noncommittally as he unlocks the door, pressing the hidden palm plate on the wall and glancing into the retinal scanner that doubles as a peephole. Phil barely has a moment to notice a second -- new -- scanner set into the door at the perfect height for someone in a wheelchair, and then the door swings open.

They're in the wrong apartment. They have to be.

But that is his couch and his plant and his aquarium -- and oh, how he's missed his fish -- and his framed, original USO poster. That is all his, but everything else is different.

He stares around in shock as Clint pushes him inside and closes the door.

The furniture has been moved around -- some of it is missing, but there is more room for the wheelchair to maneuver. The doorways have been widened, and there are gleaming silver safety rails along all the walls. Through the archway and into the kitchen, he can see that his dishes have been moved to a freestanding hutch and the counters and sink have all been lowered. The appliances are all new, brushed stainless steel, and his top-and-bottom freezer/fridge is now a side-by-side.

Here in the living room, his media shelves have been rearranged so that the knickknacks and framed photos are on the upper shelves, his books and DVDs easily accessible toward the bottom.

“What did you do?” he finally asks, his voice shaky and weak. “Clint, what did you _do_?”

Clint smiles uncertainly. “Surprise?”

Emotion is churning within Phil, a volatile mix too complicated to name. Part of him is so damn _grateful_ at what Clint has done -- he won't have to struggle needlessly to perform basic tasks -- but this is all permanent. The changes to his home are _permanent_ , and accepting them feels like the worst kind of defeatism, like giving in and believing some of the doctors, who've said he'll never recover, never get out of this damn chair.

He is healing much more slowly than anticipated, and nobody can explain it. Their best guess is that whatever magic or power resided in Loki's spear has wrecked his body, perhaps forever. The doctors are mystified, none of their recovery timelines have been accurate, and they are growing increasingly pessimistic. On his worst days, Phil thinks they must be right. Only on his worst days, but there are enough of those, and they are increasing.

“Hey,” Clint says sharply, and he is crouching again, and Phil hates it, hates that Clint has to stoop down now, that he cannot stand tall and look this man that means so much to him in the eye.

Seeing that Phil is distracted again, Clint raps on the plastic armrest of the chair. Phil's eyes are drawn back to his, and he says, “Nothing here is permanent. If you don't like the changes, we can put everything back the way it was. I just thought you might like things a little easier until you get your lazy ass out of that chair and stop playing on everyone's sympathy.”

That breaks Phil out of his bleak spiral -- Clint knows exactly how much he hates this, hates being injured and weak like this. After all, Clint is the one who's been the unlucky target of what the pysch department calls necessary emotional release and Phil calls his little temper tantrums.

Clint grins brightly in the face of Phil's glare, knowing his harshly teasing words have had the effect he intended.

“What happens when I don't need all this anymore?” Phil asks him, reaching desperately for his natural optimism.

Clint shrugs easily. “Well, we can either change it all back, or... or we can leave it all like this for a new tenant who can use it all, and you can move into the tower, either on your own, or -- or with me.”

They had been batting around the idea of living together before -- before Loki, so it's not out of nowhere. The idea of waking up beside Clint every morning in _their_ bed, sharing a home and lazy evenings together... it's a good one.

Then Clint has to go and ruin it as he smirks and says, “Fury'll probably make it an order by then anyway.”

Phil groans and then winces. It's the truth. The Avengers need a SHIELD liaison, someone who isn't afraid to ride herd on them and keep them from killing each other or destroying the city in a fit of pique. The have already accepted Phil into their ranks, and his take-no-shit attitude makes him perfect for the job, but to do it, he'll need to be close to the team. In the bed of one of them is probably _not_ Nick's preferred location for said liaison, but he'll take what he can get as long as he doesn't have to deal with what he calls _that pack of crazy assholes_.

“We'll deal with that when you're kicking the crap out of the baby agents again,” Clint says as he stands and moves behind the chair, and Phil is beyond thankful for the certainty in his words. “Now, do you want to see the rest of it, or do I call the contractors to come in and change it all back?”

“Show me the rest,” Phil says instantly, because what Clint's done here is remarkable, whether or not Phil is ready to deal with the implications of it, and he wants to see all of it.

“You know,” Clint says offhandedly as he starts pushing again, and Phil's eye twitches, because he knows that tone -- that tone means Clint is about to say something he knows Phil will hate. “You should give serious thought to a motorized wheelchair, Phil. Don't think I don't know that you push yourself around when I'm not there, and that is completely against the orders of your docs and your PT.”

Phil says nothing, because it's true -- he does. Or at least, he tries. He can't go more than a few feet without his muscles aching and his chest feeling like it's on fire, but he _hates_ being dependent on anyone else for his mobility, so he keeps trying.

A motorized chair would give him the freedom of movement he craves, but it too would feel like surrendering to his fate.

“Stark's already got one built,” Clint says. “Nothing but custom out of him, of course.”

Phil snorts tiredly. “It's probably red and gold, repulsor powered, and shoots lasers.”

“I managed to keep him to a discreet black,” Clint says with a laugh, “but it _is_ sleek as hell, and I can't guarantee there are no hidden bells, whistles, or armaments.”

Phil is torn between a desire to see it and the wish to have it immediately ordered to the scrap heap. “I'll think about it,” he says grudgingly, and then his words leave him completely as they enter his bedroom.

Like the rest of the apartment, it has been completely transformed, but this is _his_ space, his inner sanctum, and the transformation seems much more... personal.

The bed has been lowered, though his beloved headboard and footboard remain, and through the open door of the closet, he can see that the hanger rail is now much lower, his suits neatly hung in a row, perfectly in order. His shoes are shined and carefully sorted, resting in a complicated structure of open nested boxes beside the closet, and his casual clothes are in an low, open-fronted cabinet beneath the wall-mounted flatscreen, neatly folded and organized exactly how he likes them. Where his chest of drawers used to be there is now what he can only call a dressing table, his watches and cufflinks tucked into little glass-fronted compartments, his bottles of cologne crowding the top.

It is all _wonderful_ \-- perfectly him -- and he truly realizes for the first time just what a gift Clint has given him, and how flawless a job he has done with it. He has taken everything he has ever observed about Phil and applied it to this project.

Clearly sensing that Phil is a little overwhelmed, Clint backs out of the room, pulling him along. “C'mon,” he says, “I'll show you _my_ favorite part.”

In the bathroom, counter space and cabinets have been sacrificed to make the toilet more easily accessible for him, the new sink is sleek and modern and gorgeous, and the leaky tub he never used has been removed, replaced by a large shower stall that is remarkable and has Tony Stark written all over it.

There is a built-in bench, and multiple showerheads that are apparently controlled by a panel at the height of the bench. Phil thinks of the way the water will feel pounding on his tired muscles after therapy, and he almost moans in anticipation.

Clint taps the clear glass door of the shower. “Self-cleaning. No squeegee necessary. Don't ask me how it works, I have no fucking clue.”

“This is amazing,” Phil murmurs as he glances around.

The whole bathroom has been remodeled, the ugly yellow décor he's always vaguely hated replaced by calm and soothing greens and blues. It also smells faintly of paint. And possibly grout.

“When did you finish all this?”

Clint avoids his gaze and rubs absently at the back of his neck. “It, uh, _may_ have looked kinda like that last frantic hour in an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition in here last night.”

Phil doesn't know whether to laugh or groan as Clint wheels him out again.

When Clint opens the door to the apartment's second bedroom -- the one Phil has always used as an office -- Phil can't quite hide his sigh of relief. There were a ton of items missing from the living area and hallway, things he hadn't wanted to ask about for fear that he wouldn't like the answer, but here it all is. The bulk of his collection.

Comics, cards, framed posters, props (replica and authentic), tie-in novels, and figurines. Promotional products of every kind, things it has taken him a lifetime to gather. All of it is now artfully displayed in a beautiful system of shelves and cases and cabinets.

“I hope you don't mind that I moved most of it,” Clint says quietly. “I just thought... well, Steve might want to visit, and...”

There is a part of him -- his internal, eternal seven-year-old -- shrieking with glee at the thought of Steve Rogers, _Captain America!_ , in his home, and that part of him shames the rest of him. He has gotten to know Steve fairly well over the last six weeks or so, since they weaned him off of the _really_ good drugs, and he is a good man, on the way to becoming a good friend. The idea that he might be made uncomfortable by the irrefutable proof of Phil's hero worship if he were ever kind enough to visit is... unbearable. He frowns.

“I guess I should probably think about maybe -- ”

There is no crouching this time. Clint circles to stand in front of him, leaning down until their noses are almost touching.

“Hey. Listen. It was your belief in heroes, Phil -- your belief that good men exist who will do the right thing -- that pulled us all together when the whole goddamn world was falling apart, okay? That absolute certainty is a part of you, and it is amazing, and don't you _ever_ feel ashamed of it, you understand me?”

Phil is breathless, both from the beauty of Clint's incredible eyes at this distance, and from the absolute conviction of Clint's words.

Clint has always teased him mercilessly about his collection, his idealism, his belief in Captain America, and his not-so-hidden wish that the superheroes in his comic books existed. Never before has he even hinted that it is something he admires in Phil, and Phil can't help but be moved. He didn't think it was possible, but he falls a little more in love with the man.

Those gorgeous eyes narrow until Clint is glaring at him from two inches away. “But. You do something like that again, and I'll finish the job myself, got it?”

Phil only smiles, because he can't promise, and they both know it. Their jobs consist of holding the front lines so innocents are safer, and Phil will never apologize for doing his job.

Besides, his return to duty might be a moot point if he never gets out of this chair. He keeps that thought to himself.

Clint takes him through the rest of the apartment, pointing out additional changes and features -- a lower dining table, relocated light switches, a new desk built to accommodate a wheelchair, a voice-activated thermostat.

Phil raises his eyebrow at the last one, and Clint shrugs.

“You have no idea what a fight it was to keep Stark from just installing JARVIS in here,” he says defensively, and Phil shudders at the thought -- omniscient AIs are not on his list of soothing technological advances. He likes JARVIS. From a distance. “And I'm still not sure I've completely convinced him that you don't need a helper 'bot, so...”

That thought is simultaneously awesome and frightening. He's seen DUM-E at work.

By the time they are finished, back in the beautifully open living room, Phil is completely overwhelmed, unable to put the thoughts and emotions swirling within him into words.

From the start, Phil's life has been one of structure and regiment and discipline. An ex-military father, his own military career, and the quasi-military setup of SHIELD have drummed into him the need for order, for a tightly-held schedule and a life with no frills.

His home has always been the one place he's been free to live, to experiment with his own wants and wishes, and the _need_ for that freedom has been warring with the terror that he might never be able to live that free and independent again. He's been locked in a mental struggle he had no idea even existed.

But Clint has taken a stubborn wish to get away from the doctors and nurses who've spent the last two months controlling every aspect of his life -- when he eats, when he sleeps, when he takes a piss or a shower, when he sits or walks, when he _rolls over_ , for God's sake -- and he has given Phil all of this, so much more freedom than Phil could ever have imagined.

Clint has given Phil his life back.

“Hey,” Clint says softly, his fingers gentle as he brushes Phil's cheeks, and Phil is staggered to realize he's crying. “I'm hoping those are happy tears and not a sign of despair that I've wrecked your place.”

“Clint...” Phil murmurs, all he can manage, and Clint smiles in understanding before he glances around.

“I gotta admit, I've been kind of afraid that I renovated myself out of usefulness here...”

The words are joking, but the tone is less so, and for that, Phil finds the words he needs.

“Your _usefulness_ is _not_ the reason I keep you around, Clint. I hope you know that.”

The smile Clint gives him is much more genuine this time, telling Phil that even if he knows that, sometimes he needs to hear the words.

“I, um, I hope you don't mind the idea of a live-in caretaker,” Clint says after a moment, and Phil looks sharply at him, alarmed. “The team kind of kicked me out of the tower until further notice.”

That is no better than the thought of a stranger in Phil's home. No. That is worse. Far worse.

“What?” he snaps.

Clint shrugs. “I was told in no uncertain terms that if I left you on your own to struggle through all of this, I was more of an asshole than anyone realized, and since -- ”

“I am _not_ your responsibility, Clint, and they can't just -- ”

Clint's calloused finger brushes his cheek, oh so gently, as Clint smiles at Phil's anger on his behalf. “And since it was something I wanted anyway,” he continues, as though Phil never said a word, “I had no problem agreeing, as long as you're okay with it. They can reach me if they need me, and I've been informed that my presence is still mandatory at all team dinners and movie nights -- one slightly-foxed senior agent in tow required for entrance.”

Phil groans, both at Clint's teasing words and at the thought of movie night with the team. He envisages unimaginable levels of snark and unerringly aimed buttered popcorn missiles. (No torture method on this Earth will ever get him to admit that it sounds like a blast.)

Clint pushes him near an armchair and then sits so that he is at eye level with Phil without crouching by him or leaning over him.

He takes Phil's hand in both of his and gently strokes the back of it, and he is deadly serious as he says, “Being with you through all of this is the most important thing in my life right now, Phil. I need you to know that. I'll be with you through every single part of it, no matter what happens. Nothing else means to me what you do.”

Phil's eyes fall closed as his breath catches, and he can feel the liquid heat of tears on his cheeks again. He blames fatigue, or the pain meds he's on, anything other than the enormous surge of emotion swamping him.

Clint chuckles, his own voice a little quivery as he leans forward to press his lips to the corner of one eye and then the other.

“You're exhausted, babe,” he murmurs. “C'mon, let's get you all tucked in that shiny new bed of yours.”

Phil's glare is halfhearted, and Clint laughs again. He stands, but before he can move behind the wheelchair, Phil says, “Wait.”

Clint stops immediately, and Phil waits until their gazes meet.

“Thank you,” he says simply. “For everything.”

Clint's face goes so incredibly soft as he leans in, and the kiss is awkward and quick with Phil in the wheelchair.

They'll have to work on that.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

**Epilogue**

 

It is only later that day, when they have christened the new bed (sadly, the christening consists only of a joint nap, as Phil is not cleared for anything more, and Clint is being frustratingly stubborn about following Medical's orders for _once_ in his damn life), that Phil has a chance to think about the sheer _magnitude_ of what has been done to his apartment.

“I can't believe Peverill agreed to all of this,” he murmurs toward the ceiling, knowing Clint is lying awake beside him.

There is a worrying silence after his words.

“Clint?”

Nothing but a noncommittal hum, and that is _not_ good for Phil's healing heart.

“Clint.”

“I said it was on the up and up,” Clint says breezily, after another distressing pause. “I said your landlord agreed to it all.”

“Barton.”

Clint sighs, and the bed moves as he shrugs. “Peverill is kind of an asshole, y'know?”

“Tell. Me.”

“Okay, look, the jerk was okay with the idea of all the renovations, especially once he realized that the team was footing the whole bill _and_ that he could rent the apartment for more later, but once he realized how fast we wanted everything done, he started dragging his feet and complaining about the noise and the mess, and we didn't have time for that, so...”

Phil closes his eyes, breathes as deeply as he can. “Clint. Please. Just tell me.”

“Starkboughtthebuilding.”

Phil's eyes fly open. He can't have heard that right. “What.”

“We needed it done quick, before you were ready to come home, and Peverill was being a bastard, so Tony -- he just bought it. I think he might've paid cash. Like the change in his couch cushions, you know?”

“Oh God.”

“He said it was a good investment, with the uh, sudden upswing in the need for housing, and he was impressed with the neighborhood.”

“Oh. God. You are telling me -- ”

“Yes.”

“ -- that Tony Stark -- ”

“Yep.”

“ -- Iron Man, the man that knows exactly how to stomp on my very last nerve -- ”

“Uh huh.”

“ -- more than _any_ other man I know -- ”

“That's him.”

“ -- is my new landlord.”

“That is exactly the truth, yes, sir.”

“...oh _God._ ”

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this fic was _Extreme Makeover: Coulson Edition_. Just thought I'd share that. *g*


End file.
